All Things Are Possible: God Uses the Unthinkable to Accomplish the Unimaginable

By Eva L. Queen

Meet the Queen family. A middle-class, two-parent household living the American dream in a suburb of Baltimore, Maryland. Life had thrown them some tough blows in the past, but nothing could have prepared them for the battle they would face to save the life of their unborn child. As Christians, this family was about to enter the faith-fight of t

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trilogy Christian Publishing
• Release date: May 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781640889804

Book preview

Foreword

When my sister asked me to write a foreword to a book that describes in vivid detail her journey for the past fifteen years, it was intimidating. But, remembering how she and her family endured and persevered through this time, and seeing the Hand of God at work throughout her journey, it gave me the ability to do this.

I witnessed Eva and Wayne’s courage throughout this process. I saw firsthand her early despair, her worry, and her trepidation about Amanda shortly after her birth and have borne witness to her renewed faith and trust in God. I was honored she asked me to be Amanda’s godfather (a relationship that has morphed into me becoming Amanda’s bestie).

Reading this book will renew your faith in God to do what seems to be humanly impossible. By the time you finish reading, if you have any doubts about the ability of God, simply remember the Word of God, and your doubts will be assuaged. The power of God is so prevalent throughout this book that you, too, will conclude that with God, all things are possible.

Now unto him who is able to do exceedingly, abundantly, above all we could ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us. (Ephes. 3:20, KJV)

James Redditt

Brother, godfather, and bestie

Introduction

It was a cold winter’s morning. The snowfall was wet and heavily covered the tree limbs and electrical wires that lined the streets of Baltimore City. The young couple (well, not so young—they were both middle aged) drove to the hospital, knowing the prognosis was poor, but they were trying to stay positive. It was a difficult pregnancy from the start. The couple had other children, and they thought they were ready to face any challenge. Were they overestimating themselves?

After the difficult delivery of their baby girl, the doctors delivered the awful news. Ma’am, sir, we are sorry to inform you that the situation is more dire than we even expected. If there is to be any hope for a meaningful life, this child is going to need immediate and radical treatment.

That child was me. The year was 1963, and I was born with Rhesus disease. This disorder occurs when the mother and baby’s blood types are incompatible. Specifically, the mother’s blood type is O negative, and the baby’s is RH positive. This results in Rhesus disease, which can cause sever jaundice. In such cases, without prenatal interventions, which did not exist in the 1960s, the mother’s body would view the unborn baby as a virus and launch an autoimmune response to protect itself. This resulted in an assault on the unborn child’s hemolytic (blood) system, leaving the child acutely jaundiced, and in some cases, the pregnancy would self-abort.

In my case, it was the former. What worked in my favor was a radical new development in the treatment of such cases. It was known as a total transfusion. This meant that all of the child’s blood would be replaced with donor blood. The side effects of this treatment were that I developed a complex seizure disorder. I was prescribed powerful antiseizure medications that included phenobarbital (a barbiturate) and Dilantin. These medications caused cognitive delay, and I struggled to learn. Unfortunately, when I was a child matriculating through primary education, there was no such thing as special education. Neither were there related community services. My parents and I were on our own.

I remember my early school years feeling foggy and distracted from learning. It was hard. I spent most of my time alone, and my social skills were poor. I experienced a great deal of anger, and I longed to be healthy. I was often truant, got into lots of trouble, and my grades were always low.

As a teenager, I learned how to fit in socially, but always with the wrong crowd. Mom and Dad divorced when we were very young due to domestic violence. My stepdad drank a lot, and Mom had a lot to say when he did. She was a Creole, and her personality was sharp. She was a real spitfire. When she complained about his alcohol abuse, her word choices were coarse and insulting. This always led to physical altercations and violence. When she finally made the decision to leave, we had nowhere to go. All her extended family were in Louisiana.

The divorce left our family shattered in so many ways. Mom had never really worked, so trying to find odd jobs was difficult. Initially, we stayed in a women’s shelter. The room we stayed in was pretty small. Each family had a bedroom. Ours had two twin beds and a dresser. The kitchen, restrooms, and living room were common areas and open to all. I have the fondest memories of that place, especially the kitchen. It smelled clean, like Murphy’s Oil Soap, and water. It had a large black-and-white checkered floor. It was the only time of my early childhood wherein I have good memories of Mom. She seemed to be at peace and calm when we were there. When it was time for us to leave, Mom had managed to land two part-time jobs. She was able to rent a cute little townhouse in northwest Baltimore City. I remember her doing the renovations all on her own. She even single-handedly paneled the walls. I guess, I got my mom the builder skills from her.

Because Mom had to work odd hours, we kids were often left alone. Our oldest brother was left in charge. He was only a child, maybe ten. In retrospect, I can imagine how taxing that must have been on him. He was always pretty angry, and I was often the brunt of his aggression. I cannot call our altercations fights because I was too afraid to fight back. Once, when Mother left us alone for the evening, he became so angry he hurled a fork across the room at me, and it landed into my arm. When he realized what he had done, he ran over and pulled it out. I remember the blood streaming out of the tiny holes, like the penny fountains we sometimes visited in downtown Baltimore. He apologized profusely and begged me not to tell. I didn’t.

To be honest, I was a handful.